Flame of the West

by David Pilling

  In the end, I left him to grieve. It was unbearable, being in the presence of such a miserable death, and I could feel the weight of all Elene’s wasted years pressing down on me.

  Somehow, though I claimed to feel no guilt, the blame was mine. For whatever reason, I had not been good enough for her, and the result of my inadequacy lay bleeding in a lukewarm bath.

  For the present, I had exhausted all I had to say to Arthur. He had shocked me, and frightened me a little, and finally left me baffled. His love and sorrow for Elene was evident, but there was something unknowable about him. In time, when his grief had passed and Elene was safely in the ground, I hoped to become his friend.

  I was obliged to leave Ravenna the same evening, to inform Belisarius of the success of my mission. He was elated, the happiest I had seen him in many a year, and warmly congratulated me on finding my son.

  “God has not seen fit to bless me in that regard, alas,” he said, shaking my hand (he had just one child, a daughter from a previous marriage), “but I wish you joy of him. Arthur, is his name? Ha, your grandsire lives again!”

  I had come to a similar conclusion. Later, in the peace and solitude of my tent, I permitted myself the luxury of grand dreams.

  Thanks to the discovery of Arthur, my chaotic, rootless existence now made sense. All had become clear. Belisarius would assume control of the restored Roman Empire and despatch me, at the head of an army, to make Britain a Roman province once again.

  The stories of my grandsire insisted that he had not died at Camlann, but had been spirited away to Avallon, the legendary Isle of Apples, to recover from his wounds in a deathless sleep. When the time came, and Britain was in deadly peril, he would awake and return at the head of his warriors to save the country.

  My mind raced with possibilities. The prophecy of my grandsire’s return would be fulfilled in the person of my son, another Arthur. He would return to Britain, with me at his side, and drive out the barbarians who had plagued the land for generations.

  It was not I who would sit in royal state, with the glittering crown of the High King of Britain on my brow, and Caledfwlch at my hip. That glorious destiny was reserved for my son. My task was to bring it about.

  My dreams that night were full of kings and crowns, dim battles fought beside a misted shore, the cries of dying men, the dying blast of war-horns, and the harsh croak of ravens as they feasted on the slain.

  My youth had been haunted by such dreams, but I had not experienced any for years, ever since I slew the traitor Leo in the Hippodrome. I welcomed their return, and gloried in the vivid, bloodstained imagery of war. They were glimpses, I assured myself, of the glorious victories Arthur would win over the pagans in Britain.

  Not once, in my fevered imaginings, did I consider the wishes of my son. He, like me, was inextricably bound up in the coils of fate. There was no escaping his destiny. Why should he wish to?

  The night passed, dreams faded, and the sound of trumpets pierced the morning air, announcing the surrender of Ravenna.

  17.

  On a cold, bright dawn in mid-December, the gates of the Gothic capital were thrown open, and Belisarius led his army in triumph through the streets. His fleet, laden with provisions to sweeten the mood of the starving populace, was permitted to sail into the harbour at Classe.

  The sailors immediately started distributing bread and wine to the citizens. Belisarius well understood how to win the affection of the mob, and that the fame and terror of his name were sometimes not enough to guarantee it.

  I rode in the vanguard, among his Veterans, wearing the fine armour he had given me at Fermo. The imperial banner flew in triumph above my head, and thousands of people lined the streets to look upon their deliverer – or conqueror, depending on how you look at it – General Flavius Belisarius, the most famous soldier of the age.

  “Shame!” I overheard some of the Gothic women cry, “shame!”

  I thought their shouts were directed at me, but then I saw them spitting in the faces of their menfolk and pointing in derision at our troops.

  They were heaping shame on their husbands and brothers and sons, the men of the Gothic nation, for being conquered by the Romans, whom they regarded as degenerate and effeminate. Certainly, most of our soldiers lacked the physical size and strength of the Goths. To the women, who knew little of war, it must have seemed impossible that a vastly outnumbered army of pygmy hirelings could have overcome their warriors in so many battles.

  Belisarius was careful to restrain his men from looting the city, not wishing to spoil the glory of this, his final and decisive victory. Having surrendered peacefully, Ravenna was spared the horrors of the sack, and Belisarius’s accession to the throne of Italy untainted by the blood of innocents.

  First, he had to formally claim the crown from Vitiges. Clad in his golden ceremonial armour, he dismounted before the steps of the palace, and entered on foot with two hundred Veterans marching at his back. The imperial banner was put aside, and trumpeters and drummers announced his arrival, filling the halls of Theoderic’s palace with triumphant noise.

  I marched in the front rank of Veterans, between Bessas and Hildiger. Procopius hurried to keep step beside us, carrying a folded robe of purple and gold silk. Imperial robes, destined to be draped over his master’s shoulders at the height of the crowning ceremony.

  We expected no resistance, and encountered none. Vitiges had ordered his guards to lay down their arms. The proudest of them had refused, and languished in chains under the palace, but the rest knelt in submission as we marched past. No longer soldiers of an independent Gothic kingdom, but subjects of Belisarius, King-Emperor of the West.

  Vitiges and his chief councillors were waiting for us in the throne room. The ex-King of the Goths, now dressed in a plain blue mantle and tunic, stood at the foot of the steps leading to the vacant throne. Queen Matasontha had already left him, departing from Ravenna in a cloud of dust and disapproval. A few loyal attendants had gone with her, along with several ox-drawn wagons containing her share of the royal treasure.

  Four trembling old councillors, dressed in plain robes, knelt in the middle of the avenue leading to the throne. Between them they held a purple cushion. On the cushion gleamed the crown of Italy. A slender silver diadem, studded with flashing gemstones.

  Without even glancing at the crown, Belisarius swept past the old men. Vitiges knelt in submission, but the general ignored him also, and mounted the steps of the dais.

  The trumpets rang out once more, and his Veterans crashed to a halt. Belisarius turned to face us. A proud, imposing figure, tall and soldierly and dignified. Born to wear the purple.

  I pictured Justinian, sitting in the heart of the Great Palace in Constantinople. Soon enough he would hear of his general’s betrayal, and soil himself in terror.

  Belisarius beckoned to Procopius, who climbed the steps of the dais and stood beside him.

  “Bring forth the crown,” he ordered, his voice full of confidence and authority. This was the true voice of Caesar.

  The aged councillors struggled to their feet and advanced slowly across the mosaic. Their rheumy eyes were full of fear. Vitiges shuffled aside on his knees to make space for them. He was a sorry sight, utterly cowed and defeated, forced to watch his enemy take the crown he had failed to defend.

  One of the old men, the least decrepit, reverently lifted the crown from its cushion and limped up the steps. Wincing at the cracking in his bony knees, he abased himself before Belisarius and offered up the crown.

  Belisarius looked at it for the first time. An expectant silence hung over the chamber. He slowly stretched out his right hand and held it hovering over the precious diadem.

  The hand curled into a fist.

  “Soldiers,” he cried, “arrest these men, in the name of Rome and the Emperor Justinian.”

  18.

  The shadows lengthen in my cell. Winter has come. Her bony fingers creep through the thick walls of our abbey, touching the hearts o
f those who lack the strength to withstand her.

  I am one of them. This shall be my last winter on earth, for which I thank God in His mercy. My spirit is ready to fly, to break free of this crumbling stronghold of flesh and bone, and look for its salvation.

  Or damnation, if the Lord wills. I have done enough good and evil in my life to warrant either. Strange to think that, left to myself, I would have happily lived out my days in peaceful obscurity. For fifty years I was used by others before finding a degree of repose here, in this quiet abbey.

  The abbot, Gildas, disapproves of my writings. “A Christian monk should spend his time in prayer and contemplation,” he is fond of saying, “not recording the sins and sorrows of his past.”

  My answer is always the same. “What of your own histories, lord?” I ask in the mock-humble tone I know irritates him.

  “They are sermons, Coel, not histories,” he huffs, “intended to condemn the kings of Britain for their sins, and warn future generations to heed the word of the Lord.”

  We spend much of our remaining time like this, two old men, sitting in a freezing cell and arguing. It is one way to stay warm.

  Gildas is famed for his learning and acerbic writing style. He keeps an extensive library – his only luxury – and is known to some as Gildas the Wise. His major work, On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain, describes events in Britain from the arrival of the legions to our own time.

  It is a history, whatever he might claim, though shamelessly inaccurate and larded with the righteous fury of a holy man who thinks his people have abandoned God.

  His chronicle makes no mention of my grandsire, the man who united the Britons, at least for a time, and held the land safe against barbarian conquest for twenty-one years. I have begged and pleaded with Gildas to relent, but he will have none of it.

  “Arthur was a tyrant,” he says firmly, “an uncrowned king who ruled by mere force of arms, and without legitimate authority. I care not how many battles he won against the heathen. He shall play no part in my narrative. I draw a veil over him.”

  I know the true reasons for Gildas’ silence. Arthur executed a number of his kinsmen, British princes who rebelled against Arthur’s authority and (God grant the abbot never reads this) forged treacherous alliances with the Saxons.

  Treachery. It has been the constant theme of my life. Of all the betrayals and disappointments, the one that hurt me most, and defined the remainder of my life, was the one committed by Belisarius in the throne room of Theoderic’s palace in Ravenna.

  To do him credit, he made some effort to explain his actions to me, on the eve of his departure for Constantinople. Justinian had recalled him, not in disgrace – even he could not deny Belisarius’ achievements in Italy – but not in triumph either. The general’s enemies at court, headed by Narses, ensured Justinian’s gratitude was forever poisoned by envy and suspicion.

  “I am sorry,” were his first words to me, when he summoned me to his quarters in the palace, “sorry for deceiving you. It was necessary. You must understand.”

  We were in the old royal chambers, once the private residence of Vitiges and his queen. In common with the rest of the palace, the floors were decorated with startling mosaics of many hues and complex designs, the walls pillared and colonnaded in white marble.

  The ex-King of the Goths was now an honoured captive, destined to be taken back to Constantinople aboard Belisarius’ flagship. Like Gelimer before him, he would be paraded along the Mese in chains before the cheering populace as the latest trophy of war. His ultimate fate would be decided by Justinian, who had done little to defeat the brave Gothic king, and much to undermine the efforts of his own troops.

  “Why?” I asked simply, “why was it necessary?”

  Belisarius had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I needed to persuade Vitiges that I really intended to betray the Emperor. It was the only way of securing Ravenna without a siege. There was no better of making him believe the lie than sending an envoy who also believed it.”

  “Unworthy of me, I know,” he said helplessly, “I daresay you expected better of your general. But it was a legitimate ruse of war. Consider, Coel. The city freely opened its gates to us, and not one Roman soldier died. Italy is restored to the Empire. We have achieved everything we set out to do here.”

  “At the price of your honour,” I pointed out.

  The scene of chaos in the throne room, after Belisarius had ordered his Veterans to arrest the Gothic councillors, was still vivid in my mind.

  It was all pre-planned. Bessas and Hildiger rushed forward before I knew what was happening. The old men were seized, bleating feebly in protest. Vitiges tried to make a fight of it, but he was unarmed, and two of our Huns cracked his head against a pillar. He slumped to the ground, bleeding from his mouth and nostrils, and was quickly trussed up and dragged away.

  Belisarius plucked the crown of Italy from its cushion between finger and thumb, and held it at arm’s length.

  “This degraded object,” he said contemptuously, “shall adorn no more ambitious heads. Take it away.”

  He tossed it to his soldiers, who laughed and threw it about among themselves. Finally a grinning officer seized it and tucked it into his belt, to the good-natured groans of his men.

  “My honour?” said Belisarius, back in the present, “what is that worth, compared to the glory of Rome? Those fools in Ravenna thought I was prepared to betray Caesar. They will have ample leisure to reflect on their mistake.

  “So did I, sir,” I reminded him, “time and again you promoted me, above my ability, and made a false promise regarding my homeland. You told me the Western Empire would be restored under your stewardship. That I would return to Britain at the head of an army, to drive out the barbarians threatening to destroy it. You made me dream impossible dreams, all for the sake of your ambition.”

  “No,” he replied sternly, wagging a finger, “for the sake of Rome. Yes, I lied to you. I apologise. But you deserved the promotions. I have no more loyal and capable officer in my service.”

  “Had. I intend to resign my commission and retire from the army. Immediately.”

  His eyes widened. “Do nothing in haste, Coel. Your career…”

  “I care nothing for my career. I am sick of it all. The army. The constant intrigues and betrayals. I want no more part of it.”

  Belisarius tried to persuade me otherwise, to assure me of my continued worth to him, but I stood firm. The treachery of Ravenna had broken something inside me. To be promised so much, and then have it snatched away and revealed as mere illusion, a trick to fool barbarians, was more than my pride could bear.

  “I would remind you,” he said when all his arguments were exhausted, “that a soldier of Rome is required to serve for a minimum of twenty-five years. You are nowhere near completing your term. The penalty for desertion is death.”

  I faced him calmly. “Then you will have to put me on trial, sir. I will not remain a moment longer in your service. In any case, I am not a young man, and Rome has had the best of me.”

  He was right, of course. I didn’t have the option of voluntary retirement, but counted on him feeling that he owed me something. I had spilled enough of my blood on his behalf, in North Africa and Sicily and Italy, and he would gain little from forcing me to stay on.

  “Very well,” he said at last, “if you are determined on this course, I shall not hinder you. There will be no trial. But you will lose my friendship.”

  I said nothing, and I could see my silence wounded him. He could count the number of officers whose loyalty to him was absolute on the fingers of one hand. Their number had just diminished.

  19.

  I waited until the fleet had departed for Constantinople, laden with prisoners and plunder from the long campaign, and then hired a small private ship to take me home.

  Me, and my son. Arthur had buried his mother in a private ceremony – I was invited, but had no wish to go – and was at a loss. He owed allegiance to no-o
ne, having merely posed as a Gothic officer, and had no wish to serve in the garrison Belisarius left behind to guard Ravenna.

  I found him sitting on an upturned barrel on a jetty, watching the last of our ships depart. He had kept his armour and sword, and I felt such a pang as I looked at him. Elene was dead, but I could not forgive her for cheating me of him. Of all those lost years, when I might have loved and raised him as my own, like a normal father.

  “Come with me,” I said, “to Constantinople. There is nothing to keep either of us here.”

  A gentle breeze ruffled his hair as he gazed out to sea. “I have seen the imperial city,” he murmured, “from afar. Mother always refused to go back there.”

  “For good reason. We can both prosper there. I have lost the favour of Belisarius, but do not lack for money.”

  This was true. My friend Procopius had looked after my interests during the campaign, and taken care to set aside my share of the plunder from all the cities and fortresses our army had sacked. Along with my back pay, and the sale of the fine horse and armour Belisarius had presented me with at Fermo, I was, if not rich, at least comfortable.

  Arthur smiled. He was a handsome boy, my superior in every respect.

  “Mother wanted me to kill you,” he said, “she never uttered your name without cursing it. And now here you are, offering me a chance of a new life. What would we do, go into business together?”

  I nodded. “That is exactly what I have in mind. I am getting too old for the army, and have no wish to see you waste your life following the eagle, as I have. Come home with me, and let us spend my money wisely.”

  So we did. A fair wind blew us across the calm seas of the Adriatic, and barely two weeks later our ship was gliding up the Straits of Magellan. It was the easiest voyage I ever knew, even though Arthur, like me, was a martyr to sea-sickness. Between bouts of vomiting and praying for death, we came to know each other a little better.